


Glimpses

by tinuelena



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:01:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuelena/pseuds/tinuelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short little one-shots... I take prompts on my Tumblr. These are the fills. (You're welcome to leave prompts for me in the comments, too!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Healing Rains (Steve/Bucky)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: MCU prompt: Bucky after a week long of rainy, cloud-covered days.   
> for placesbetween

Rain. Endless, driving, mind-numbing rain. As Bucky Barnes stared out the window, he wondered if God was flooding the earth again, punishing humanity for their wickedness.  
  
 _Or maybe I’m internalizing._ He’d learned that term at one of Sam’s meetings, after Steve finally convinced him to go. Sure, his problem was much bigger than just PTSD, but it was a start. Sam, he had to admit, was a pretty good guy— and a smart one. Even though he sat in the back of the room, taciturn, bits and pieces of him were beginning to heal.  
  
With the healing, though, came memories; and with the memories, plenty of pain. He could barely see the dome of the Capitol outside his window, and it reminded him of Odessa back in the seventies, of the week he’d spent disguised as a homeless man in Preobrazhensky Park in order to stake out the cathedral. His mission: kill the bishop, who was a vocal separatist, and leave his body on display. The KGB wanted to send a message to his supporters: not even religion could protect a man who went against the Soviet Union. And so Bucky had waited there in the rain, for five days, until the opportune moment arrived. It only took him a half an hour. When he walked away, the bishop’s body was impaled on the sharp tip of the ornamental cross atop the dome.  
  
He slid the glass door open and stepped out onto the balcony. Nine floors beneath him, a modern art sculpture rose up from the immaculately groomed courtyard. He wondered how the knifelike tip would feel if it pierced his stomach. He wondered if someone would photograph him, as they photographed Bishop Dovzhenko. He wondered if that photograph would become as famous as the one of the dead holy man.  
  
He climbed over the railing and sat on the wide ledge.  
  
"Bucky?"  
  
Inwardly, he cursed himself for giving Steve a set of keys. He turned to see his best friend running toward him. “Bucky, what are you doing?” He looked over the side and saw where Bucky’s eyes were focused. His voice softened. “Odessa again?”  
  
Bucky nodded, not taking his eyes off the sculpture.  
  
Steve hoisted himself into the air and sat on the ledge next to him. “Buck, you’ve got to let it go. You weren’t yourself; none of that was you.”  
  
"But it _was_ me,” he insisted. “My hands. I did it.”  
  
He tried to remember what Natasha had said to Clint in the months that had followed New York, how she had helped him to deal with what he’d done while under Loki’s control. “You were being used,” he said gently.  
  
"That picture," he said, voice catching, "is in every book about the KGB as one of the worst examples of their cruelty. I enlisted in the U.S. Army to _stop_ shit like that. And then I became it. That’s my legacy.”  
  
Steve put an arm around him. “You’re out of it now.”  
  
He glanced at the sculpture. “I could be out of it forever.”  
  
"Bucky." His voice was soft. "I lost you once. Don’t make me lose you again."  
  
"What does it matter? You’re Captain America now. You don’t need me protecting you anymore."  
  
"I’ve always needed you."  
  
He laughed, a cruel sound. “You needed me when you were a scrawny kid getting beat up in back alleys because you didn’t know when to keep your mouth shut. The day you walked in with that ridiculous costume and saved one thousand people by your damn self is the day you stopped needing me. I saw it. Don’t lie to me to try to make me feel better.”  
  
"You’re not listening." He looked at him, meaningfully; Bucky’s hair stuck to his face in wet strands, his brow stuck in the permanent glare it had been ever since he resurfaced. "I have _always_ needed you. Always.”  
  
Bucky turned then and looked at him, and the one thing that had always been true about Steve was still true today: everything he felt was evident in his eyes. And when Bucky met his eyes, those clear, genuine eyes, the realization hit him like a brick: his best friend had, all this time, been in love with him.  
  
"What about Peggy?" was all he could say.  
  
Steve stared at his hands. “I loved her, yes. But not only her. Back then— nothing else— I couldn’t have what I really wanted,” he finished awkwardly.  
  
Bucky remembered the weekend they went camping out in the woods when they were seventeen. They slept back-to-back in the tent. He had to fight the urge to turn over; he had to fight several urges, in fact, for which he had invented elaborate excuses. _I haven’t taken care of myself in weeks; that’s why I’m pitching my own damn tent. I just want to protect Steve; that’s why I want to turn around._  
  
But here, now, years later, he was ready to admit what he couldn’t admit in 1942. All memories of Odessa vanished as he put a tentative hand on Steve’s thigh. “Nothing’s stopping you now.”  
  
Steve looked at him in surprise, but as he saw the need echoed in Bucky’s eyes, he came close and allowed their lips to meet. Soaking wet, chilled to the bone, they shivered as they gently pulled apart.  
  
For the first time since he’d been fitted with his metal arm, the lines in his forehead relaxed. “Let’s go inside,” he whispered.  
  
Steve smiled as he slid off the ledge. “You know, you still do have to save me now and then.”  
  
"What?"  
  
"You’re the one who pulled me out of the water." He peeled off his soaked shirt and left it in a heap on the floor.  
  
Bucky nodded as he joined him. “Well.” He slipped an arm around Steve’s waist. “You know I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”


	2. Broken Arrow (Clint/Natasha, Bucky/Natasha)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt was this image: http://37.media.tumblr.com/cf902deeed064457b4b2ae09451f5b0d/tumblr_n4xct7dTmO1qbeopno1_500.png  
> for Anonymous

Clint had given Natasha only two things over the course of their official relationship: a necklace with a tiny arrow pendant, and a first edition of Aldous Huxley’s _Brave New World._ When the package came, and the pendant fell from the pages, he ran his fingers over the book’s spine and knew it was over.  
  
She had stood in the very spot he was standing just two days ago, when she showed up with a disheveled-looking man in tow, explaining in a rush that he was the Winter Soldier— _yes, that Winter Soldier,_ she’d said impatiently as he gaped at her in disbelief. _He’s Bucky Barnes. Rogers’ friend. And my—_ She stopped suddenly. _He trained me. Combat training. Years ago, at the Red Room._ _Clint, he’s hurt— and he’s starting to remember who he is. We have to help him._ For weeks, Bucky had slept on his bed while he took the couch and Natasha wandered the house sleeplessly until, one night, Bucky sat upright at 3 in the morning, called for Natasha, and stared at her as if he’d suddenly come home. _I remember,_ he said. _You wanted to know my name, all those years ago. I’m James. James Barnes. I have a name, Natasha._

And then, one day, he disappeared. Two days later, she left— _for Kiev,_ she’d said. _I have something to take care of._

He set the book down and read the unfolded letter.

He didn’t react until he’d gotten through the entire thing; and then he hurled the papers across the room, sending them skittering across the wooden floor, and he lifted his mattress, the _fucking mattress he’d let that bastard sleep on,_ and threw it against the wall, smashing a mirror and breaking a small table. The book fell to the floor, the pendant catching in the light, and he couldn’t help but think of how beautiful she’d looked with that arrow at her throat.

As he lay back on the box spring, trying with all his might not to sob, he pictured the face of James Buchanan Barnes. His eyes landed on his bow and quiver.

_He’d look just fine with an arrow at his, too,_ he thought, eyes narrowing.


End file.
